


Glory to the Mother Hero

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Communism, Consent Issues, Cunnilingus, F/F, Past Austria/Hungary, Past Domestic Violence, Past Fascism, Porn With Plot, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Service Kink, The Porn Is the Plot, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: “I said,” Natalya said at last in careful, accented Hungarian, “Your papers, if you would. Comrade.”For a suicidal moment, Erzsébet thought about telling her she had her own secret police, thank you, and the KGB could fuck right off.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The original spark for this fic was a Soviet-era joke about curfews. Some of you may identify it from the fic, but it isn't terribly important. Check the tags for specific enticements and drawbacks.
> 
> Warnings: Implied past abusive Austria/Hungary; characters collaborating/having collaborated with respectively fascism and Soviet human rights abuses; characters mixing alcohol and BDSM in ill-advised ways; consent given under dubious circumstances; mild breathplay.
> 
> Oh, man. This is a bad fic and I'm a bad person for writing it.

Erzsébet heard footsteps behind her and didn't look up. Two streets and she would be home. Only two more streets.

“Papers, please,” a woman said behind her – but not one of her people.

“I'm sorry,” Erzsébet said, “I don't speak Russian.”

“Vengriya,” the woman said. Hungary.

Erzsébet whipped around – and, to her horror, recognized the woman.

Natalya, Erzsébet thought. She corrected that thought harshly: Belarus. Russia's sister.

Natalya stood perhaps ten feet away, too far for Erzsébet to reach her before she pulled her gun, if she chose to. Her skin seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, luminous in its paleness. Her hair was only a shade darker. Erzsébet tried not to remember how soft it was, how it caught on the calluses of her hands.

Natalya's beauty had always verged on eerie, but she was still gaunt and faintly hollow eyed from the war. It should have countered the effect and somehow did not. Instead, she looked more like a volatile spirit than a human woman, but still far too beautiful.

Erzsébet remembered stories Feliks had told her about vila, or ones she had heard from Natalya herself. Rusalka were forest creatures in Belarus, not bound to water – but of course, Natalya was wearing clothing right now, rather than dancing around naked in order to lure men to an unknown fate. And Erzsébet wasn't a man, but nevertheless this was a kind of lure. She seriously considered closing her eyes as though it was really a spell that stopped her from running. Knowing how bad an idea it was, she settled for staring somewhere over Natalya's shoulder.

All of this time, they had been standing without another word. Natalya would know that Erzsébet had been lying about Russian, of course. Perhaps she was only deciding what to write on the arrest warrant.

Erzsébet wracked her head for why Natalya would be in Budapest demanding her papers in the first place, and was unable to come up with anything. Presumably she was here on KGB business, that wasn't a difficult question, but why this street, at this moment?

“I said,” Natalya said at last in careful, accented Hungarian, “Your papers, if you would. Comrade.”

For a suicidal moment, Erzsébet thought about telling her she had her own secret police, thank you, and the KGB could fuck right off.

“Just a second,” she said instead, fumbling for her purse. Her hands were shaking, and it took too much time to produce them.

“You're out very late,” Natalya remarked while she waited.

She took the internal passport Erzsébet handed her, but didn't open it, instead folding her gloved hands around it. The leather she wore was very dark, an inky color that stood out, darker than the shadows. The contrast with her hair and skin was striking. Erzsébet found it hard to keep looking away.

“It's fifteen minutes to curfew,” Erzsébet said. It was also a seventeen minute walk to her house from this corner, but Natalya didn't need to know that.

“Fourteen,” Natalya said, without looking at her watch.

Erzsébet stood, as helplessly frozen as if she really was spellbound. Look at the passport, she thought, consciously not gritting her teeth. Look at it, tell me you know who I am, give it back to me. Just let me go.

“Your name,” Natalya said.

“Hedevary Erzsébet,” she said instead of Magyarorszag _._

“Occupation?” Natalya said.

Erzsébet searched her face for a glimmer of humor, or even of sadism, but found it as impenetrable as ice. There seemed to be no one home behind Natalya's eyes; the dark blue faded into near black in the night, and she could have been staring into shadows between trees in the forest for all the life she saw.

They were going to do this, then. Seriously.

“I'm an aide to the Presidential Council,” she said.

“Interesting that a woman like you would be out so late at night,” Natalya said, and at last flicked open the passport.

Erzsébet did not repeat that it was legal. If Natalya wanted her presence on this street at this time to be a crime, she knew perfectly well that it would become one.

Natalya gave every impression of carefully inspecting the booklet, turning the pages of it with her fingers, glancing between Erzsébet and the photo of her – and that photo was an embarrassment; Erzsébet's face was still bruised from the war when it was taken – as though wanting to be absolutely certain they were the same woman.

Bullshit, Erzsébet thought, but stared submissively at Natalya's hands.

“Very well, all is in order,” Natalya said, and handed the booklet back to Erzsébet.

She didn't let herself sigh in relief – no need to imply she had something to hide, after all – but was already turning as she stuffed it back into her purse.

One step, then five, and at ten she actually began to believe she was going to get home that night, that whatever game Natalya was playing had concluded. Then the voice came again from behind her: “Ah. Excuse me, comrade. One thing.”

Erzsébet froze. Very carefully, she said, “Yes, comrade?”

“The booklet has the correct address? Or have you recently moved?”

“That address is correct. Comrade.”

“I understand that it is nearly twenty minutes to that location by foot, and it is now eleven minutes to curfew, comrade Herdevary.”

Aha. The trap had sprung.

She hadn't thought Natalya knew her city so well – but if she was in town, she must have some reason for it. Erzsébet closed her eyes. “You're correct, comrade,” she said.

Excuses spluttered to the top of her mind – she'd lived under curfews for so damn long now, it wasn't hard. She had a friend who was supposed to pick her up at the corner; she was staying with someone nearby; she had only gone out for a moment because of an emergency...

All useless. If Natalya wanted her to be a criminal, she already was.

“Ah,” Natalya said again. “I may have a solution for this.”

“Yes, comrade?” Erzsébet said, very carefully.

“The building I am staying in is a mere five minutes away by foot, on the next street. There is no need for such a loyal party member to find herself in legal difficulty over a small matter. Perhaps you will come with me.”

What the fuck, Erzsébet thought.

But she said, “Thank you, comrade. I am very grateful.”

If the twentieth century's wars and steel hadn't scooped the sense she was born with out of her head, she would have started running the minute Natalya gave her passport back. She would get away before she had a chance to die as long as Natalya didn't get a head shot, and it wasn't like it would have been permanent if she did.

Erzsébet was tired, and hungry, and Natalya would only have been waiting at her apartment if she did escape.

 

She was not particularly surprised to discover the KGB merited better lodgings and rations than anyone else around. The building might be plotted on the same cinder block lines as every other one on the block, but Natalya had a luxurious and large apartment apparently to herself inside, all of it furnished, if not exactly _tastefully,_ at least comfortably. Of course it would all be bugged to hell, but then, so was Erzsébet's.

The kitchen was visibly stocked with enough groceries for a month's stay. Erzsébet stifled the urge to go through the cupboards, take everything she could carry in her arms and flee out the front door.

For her people, naturally. Everything for the people. (Her next door neighbors could use more meat for their children...)

She _was_ surprised when Natalya crossed the room, opened a cabinet, and took out what appeared to be two glasses with the bottle of wine.

“I hope you don't mind,” she said. “I was not able to obtain any of the local brandy.”

“Please don't trouble yourself,” Erzsébet said, mystified.

“I'm not, I assure you.” Natalya poured the wine – red – and set the glasses on the counter, then opened another cabinet. “I'm afraid I have not been home for some time and didn't have time to cook today, so it won't be fancy.”

Erzsébet watched, increasingly confused, as Natalya assembled plates, a loaf of bread, cheese, a jar of preserves, and finally, cured meat.

The sausage did it. She was being bribed. “I'm not informing for you,” she said, biting it. If Natalya wanted her to be a criminal, she already was, so there was no point in dancing around it.

“Informing?” Natalya raised an eyebrow. “I am sure that a woman of your position would have nothing to inform about in her social circle. I am only being a good host.”

Oh, to hell with it. “Fine,” Erzsébet said, irritated. “Would you like me to get on my knees before or after dinner?”

Natalya – damn her to hell – merely began to slice the sausage. Erzsébet took perverse satisfaction in the fact that she was going to stain that impossibly new leather. “I understand that your previous government may have left some confusion about this matter,” Natalya murmured. “Fascism must have been very difficult for you. Communists do not extort others for sex, comrade.”

Erzsébet thought long and hard about taking the knife from Natalya's slim, gloved fingers and ramming it through her throat. And if she did, no doubt, Natalya's partner – most likely a human, but it could be Russia – would burst through the door and her one way trip to a labor camp would be underway before she could say “Entrapment.”

Instead, she said, “Of course, comrade. My mistake. I understand I am only expected to volunteer.”

She didn't know what she expected Natalya to say to that. For long moments, Natalya continued to assemble the food, and Erzsébet almost believed she wasn't going to say anything at all. Finally, she spoke. “I suppose when I hand you this, you will throw it in my face.”

“It's a possibility,” Erzsébet said. “Try it and find out.”

“I had a house in Polotsk, before the war,” Natalya said, then, for no reason Erzsébet could see.

Erzsébet blinked. “I remember. Wasn't it collectivized?”

“You are thinking of the manor house,” Natalya said. “I held it only with my estate, as a grant from the tsar in return for service. It was seized in the revolution. This was another house, in the city itself. It was very small. Not worth collectivizing.

“I understand that you were not with the soldiers who took Polotsk. I was not there either at the time, because I was fighting elsewhere, but the house was pretty thoroughly destroyed. I found several bodies inside when I returned home. My citizens.”

Erzsébet reconsidered before she apologized and backed up several feet instead. She was thankful for her own self control when she saw that Natalya's hands had gone very still on the paring knife.

“My sister's house, in Kiev – you _were_ there,” Natalya continued, in the same matter-of-fact tone.

“Ah,” Erzsébet said, and took another step backwards. Her shoulder blades brushed the wall, and she realized she had run out of room to retreat.

“She said that you appreciated the bread she had made that morning very much. Of course that was before you shot her,” Natalya said. “I suppose you had only had field rations for some time.”

There were things Erzsébet could have said to defend herself.

She might have pointed out that she had eventually turned on Germany; that Natalya had not been so righteous when Russia was paid to end the Hungarian Revolution a century prior, and Erzsébet had been the one on the defense; that she had _only_ shot Ukraine, and nothing worse had happened to her first. Nations fought in wars, and died in wars. It wasn't unusual.

“Just arrest me and get it over with,” Erzsébet said, instead of making any of those mistakes.

“Have you done something worthy of arrest, Erzsébet?” Natalya said.

As she spoke, she began chopping again. Her hands moved gracefully on the knife. Erzsébet thought, strangely, of watching Roderich play the piano.

“I have if you say I have,” Erzsébet said. “And you're here because you want to punish me. So get it over with.”

“I am doing just that,” Natalya said. “Do you want to know what is going to happen?”

“I do.” Erzsébet clenched her tongue between her teeth after she said it, so that she would say only that.

“I am going to make food, and you are going to eat it, and we are going to talk. And you are not going to make any unfortunate displays of dissident sentiment that would force this to become unpleasant. You will not cooperate because you are afraid I will arrest you, because I am not my brother and I am not your ex-husband and I am not Germany, and I do not suppose I am any more frightening than any of them.”

“Then why am I going to cooperate?”

“You will do it because you know I am right,” Natalya said. “Eat my bread, Erzsébet. You went to enough effort to steal it before.”

“I'm only agreeing to this under the condition you give me enough wine to get drunk,” Erzsébet said, resigned, and went to sit at the table.

It wasn't that Natalya was right. Really. What Erzsébet might or might not wake up at night thinking about from the war couldn't match up to what Natalya was doing for a living now, as far as she was concerned. Not when she had only ever been a soldier like any nation was required to be and Natalya had gone and deliberately sought out a job with the secret police. It wasn't only the citizens of her enemies that she presided over now.

But Erzsébet didn't want to argue with her about it anyway. For one thing Natalya might have made her talk to Ukraine.

Natalya put down the knife and only then seemed to realize she was still wearing her coat and gloves; watching her fumble with them, Erzsébet was a hair's breadth from the insanity that might have compelled her up to her feet and across the room to help.

The gloves came off finger by finger and were placed on the table; the coat, then, and all of the absurd dresses Natalya had worn at the Imperial Russian court had never drawn Erzsébet as much as Natalya in the men's shirt and trousers she had on under it. Natalya put a hand to the mass of her hair – it had grown out since she had cut it during the war; the bun spanned wider than both of Erzsébet's fists put together – and that was too much to resist. Erzsébet was next to her before she decided to move.

“Let me,” she said, softly, just as she had told herself she wouldn't.

Natalya's hands were very still, and Erzsébet almost expected to feel a knife in her gut when she looked away from them. Then she said, “You may.”

The pins were made of steel. Erzsébet's hands fumbled slightly, pulling them out. Natalya's hair was so smooth it was difficult to believe it was real, but then strands of it snagged on the calluses on Erzsébet's fingers and it was solid again.

It had been a very, very long time since Erzsébet had undressed someone else like this, carefully, one pin at a time while their owner stood impassive. Erzsébet was hardly celibate - there were days when the loneliness won out over anger against Prussia – the GDR – Gilbert, dammit, it was too much of a mess otherwise. But that was fumbling and rapid and she would have her other hand unfastening her own shirt while she pulled his off. Nothing like this.

Six of the long steel pins were apparently required to hold Natalya's hair up. Erzsébet took them out and set them on the counter one by one, and then unraveled the bun, smoothing it down with her fingers.

Natalya's hair fell long past her waist, past her hips, touching her thighs and shimmering in the movement of the light when Natalya shifted her weight.

Erzsébet wondered at it for a moment, that Russia's iron zealot of a sister would keep such a luxury attached to her head where anyone could see it. There was not, as far as Erzsébet knew, any actual law on the subject of hair cutting in the USSR _or_ Hungary, but nevertheless it seemed as though there should be. It must be a waste, a display of bourgeoisie sentiment to display such wealth when others could not obtain it.

Natalya's hair was down, and her coat and gloves were already off, and Erzsébet should have taken her hands off of her and stepped back. Instead, she pressed them, unthinking, to Natalya's shoulders. She could feel every one of Natalya's breaths; they came light, shallow and fast.

“Comrade,” Natalya said. It was so clearly a command that Erzsébet knew she had to obey or flee from it, but she didn't know what it meant. Natalya could have been ordering her to get out, or to let go of her, or to stay, or to go down on her knees after all; it was a mystery.

“Comrade,” Erzsébet said, fumbling, then, “Natalya. Natasha?”

“You dare,” Natalya said, but the words came out in a sigh, and Erzsébet saw the beginning of a flush on her neck.

Natalya was so pale; it was a mystery to Erzsébet how others could think her perpetually icy, when she flushed so vividly and visibly. She took the blush as permission.

“I do,” Erzsébet said, and reached for the cuffs of Natalya's work shirt, what she could reach next most easily.

Natalya turned, then. Erzsébet wondered for a second if that was it, if she had pushed things too far, but then Natalya was holding her wrists out. Erzsébet unbuttoned the cuffs, and then began on the shirt itself.

At first she had to fight not to take liberties – not to touch what was beneath the shirt, even in what would seem to be an accident. She could brush Natalya's breasts or the delicate, exposed skin between her collar bones with the side of a finger while she worked and Natalya would never know it was intentional – but it was the behavior of some love-besotted fool, not a professional. She wouldn't stoop to it.

She found that the rhythm came back to her after the first couple of buttons; she had been a maid for too long, and it was easy to serve. Easy, too, to slip back into the blank, empty mind of a servant who was too mired in fear and arousal to think. She had compared it to rain washing the earth clean with Austria, she remembered, in the nineteenth century. Now, Erzsébet thought of radio static, tuned low, just enough volume to drown out any other noise in the room.

Then she stopped thinking. The world narrowed into the sound of Natalya's breathing, and the line of buttons in the rough cloth of the shirt, and her own hands moving swiftly down it.

She opened the shirt, and the urge to laugh shocked her abruptly back into awareness. Russia's sister wore expensive lingerie – obviously purchased in the West. She stifled the urge and dropped her hands to let Natalya take the shirt off. Erzsébet caught the it before it hit the floor by sheer reflex and started to fold it, then fumbled. There was no wardrobe to dispose of it into, and then her brain turned the rest of the way on.

Russia's sister wore Western, store bought lingerie, Erzsébet thought again, and had to fight not to drift into hysteria. Ukraine must be too tired to sew for her, or perhaps homemade clothing was not to Natalya's taste.

Erzsébet was holding the folded shirt in her hands, and she'd been still too long; Natalya was about to move, to talk. Erzsébet put it down on the closest chair, rapidly, and turned back.

Natalya was still wearing her boots, which was a good excuse as any.

Erzsébet dropped to her knees in one fluid movement. She forever possessed that grace that had been hacked into her, like the scars of an angry woodsman's hatchet on a tree. She still heard Austria's voice in her head when she did it. _Ungarn, please, a lady does not move like a soldier at the end of a day's march..._

To be fair, she probably shouldn't have tracked the horse shit onto the carpets that day, which was what had made him angry with her in the first place if she recalled it accurately. Fuck it. The house and all its contents – manure-stained carpets included – had been set on fire some decades earlier; she really shouldn't have to think about the matter anymore.

“Erzsébet,” Natalya said, above her, and she had to shake her head to clear it out of sheer confusion. Austria had never used her name when she was on her knees.

Ridiculous, to expect Russia's sister to call her in German.

“Yes?” she said, professionally, and cringed, because it had come out _jawohl._ “Da?” she tried again, hopelessly trying to erase the mistake.

“Erzsébet,” Natalya repeated, and, “I think this was a mistake.”

Erzsébet closed her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said, and this time she made _sure_ it was Russian and not Hungarian, let alone German, that came out. “It was just a slip. I – I thought you were Austria for a second. I didn't mean any offense.”

“That isn't,” Natalya said, and Erzsébet heard her take a long breath in the gap. “I meant it when I said that you didn't have to kneel to me, Erzsébet. Please get up.”

That was definitely not how this was supposed to go.

Erzsébet opened her eyes, and Natalya had come alive with concern. She was no longer a creature still and trembling and almost luminous in the darkness but an all-too-familiar woman. Natalya Arlovskaya, frowning down at her and biting her lip, too worried to be transfixed any longer.

The anger was sliding back in, replacing the emptiness in her head. Erzsébet was a professional problem most of the time – for the Ottoman and for Austria and probably Russia now, too. She couldn't really be expected to behave _without_ that staticky numbness.

“I'm volunteering,” Erzsébet said and put her hands on the boot laces of Natalya's right foot. She didn't stop Erzsébet, but the spell had gone. Erzsébet had a sickening feeling she was being humored.

“Fuck this,” she said aloud, and stood up. Natalya appeared relieved for approximately two seconds, all the time it took Erzsébet to undo the top button of her blouse and yank it off over her head. She was confident enough in the quality of her own stitching not to bother being careful with it.

“ _Erzsébet,”_ Natalya said.

“Natasha,” Erzsébet said. “You wanted me here, you brought me here, deal with me.” Her boots were off, and that meant she could pull off the slacks, discard them and drop straight back to her knees at Natalya's feet.

“I want this,” she said, and put out of her mind the knowledge of how horrifically engrained that truth was and how it had been made so. “Let me help you.”

They stared at each other in stalemate for long moments.

Natalya's hand dropped to Erzsébet's hair, and Erzsébet surrendered, gratefully, to the rising static in her head.

“Erzsébet,” Natalya said, then, slow and thoughtful, “Yelizaveta. Liza?”

Her name's counterpart in Russian gave rise to her anger again. It was too similar to the German version, the one Roderich had used for her, and Erzsébet had to suppress the urge to do something violent.

She was here because Natalya owned her; if she wanted Erzsébet to be Liza, she would have to be for the duration of the night.

“Yes?” Erzsébet said when the tension between her shoulders had eased, and let her head tip back with Natalya's hand. “Let me serve you.” she repeated, softer, when Natalya seemed to falter.

It was a little ridiculous, applying it to the clothing they wore now. It had been long years since Natalya wore clothing that required servants, but she was familiar with it. She knew precisely the way to move to anticipate Erzsébet's help, to make it easier for Erzsébet to take off each boot and then to slide her trousers down her legs and take them off.

For all that they spoke during the day of the erasure of class distinctions, of power for their people, those years stretched behind them invisibly and colored every moment. Erzsébet saw the long-destroyed furnishings of Austria's bedroom in her mind's eye; felt the phantom of petticoats over her bare legs. She imagined that Natalya must see the manor house in or near Polotsk, the rooms she had lived in during the Russian Empire.

They could never speak of that here, of course. Natalya was Russia's trusted sister, allowed her ill-advised affairs the same as he was, and so the sex might be overlooked, but any acknowledgment of the inconvenient parts of history...

Erzsébet folded the trousers, put them over the chair with the shirt and the boots and socks, and then turned back.

Natalya stood before her in very little: brassiere and panties, not even a garter belt because there was no need for stockings under men's trousers. Erzsébet fought back the urge to pause for permission, and went instead to Natalya's back.

The clasps of the bra were delicate, and she didn't have practice with undoing them on other people the way she did with men's clothing. It took concentration and effort to unfasten the bra smoothly, to ease the straps off Natalya's arms as though this too was a motion she had gone through ten thousand times before. Professionalism got her through the rest of the lingerie without any betrayal – and Erzsébet would be proud of that, later; that she could easily have used it to grope Natalya or just press up against her by accident and had not.

She exiled the last of the clothing to the chair, picked up her own off the floor as an afterthought and slung it over another a good deal more carelessly, and returned – step by step with professional grace; she wished she had learned this from _anyone_ but her ex-husband – to slide to her knees again in front of Natalya. All as effortlessly as though she were a doll with no nerve endings; as though the place where the floorboards were not quite even under her did not hurt her knees and as though she felt no cold from the draft in the wall at her bare skin.

“You forgot something,” Natalya said, apparently prepared this time.

“I'm sorry?” Erzsébet said, and fought not to add, inappropriately, _my lady._

“Your hair,” Natalya said, and bent forward. Her own hair slid down with her, over her shoulders and arms, blocking the world out in Erzsébet's peripheral vision. There was only Natalya, her face a few inches from Erzsébet's, her hair to either side, the rest of her exposed body in front of Erzsébet.

Her skin was very close, so close Erzsébet's breaths must have touched it. Natalya smelled like wine, and flour and yeast; and faintly, beneath it all, gunpowder.

Her hands on the sides of Erzsébet's head were cool and unyielding. She pulled the pins from Erzsébet's own hair, though with some difficulty. Erzsébet's had a tendency to curl that Natalya must not be familiar with. She burned with every point of contact between Natalya's fingers and her hair.

An hour ago, Erzsébet would not have expected that Natalya would ever touch her again.

It was over too quickly. Natalya straightened, pins gathered in one hand. “Stay here,” she said, before Erzsébet could spring up to put them away for her, and walked around Erzsébet, out of her field of vision.

Erzsébet heard the clink of the pins, set down on the table behind her. Natalya's footsteps echoed in her brain, much louder than they could really be in bare feet. Erzsébet tried not to feel the paranoia that made her need to track the movements out of her sight.

Natalya came back, wine glass in hand. The red was very dark. Erzsébet wondered, inanely, if it would stain Natalya's hair, spilled.

“You don't have to do this,” Natalya repeated, stopping in front of her.

“I know,” Erzsébet said.

“If you want me to stop,” Natalya said, “Call me by my name. My country's name.”

“Belarus,” Erzsébet said.

“Yes.”

“Go on,” Erzsébet whispered, mouth suddenly dry.

Natalya leaned forward again. She put the glass to Erzsébet's lips. “Drink,” she said.

Erzsébet opened her mouth and closed her eyes.

She hadn't eaten enough to drink wine without a meal. She hadn't eaten enough at all, that day, that week, probably that month. She tried to pull back after the first few mouthfuls, but Natalya's other hand was back in her hair now, holding her head in place. Erzsébet drained the glass before Natalya took it away and let her breathe.

Natalya sighed, and went back to the table.

Erzsébet turned her head this time to watch, expecting that Natalya would drink the second glass herself, but instead she carried it back to her. Erzsébet no longer wondered at the bribe; it wasn't the food. It was Natalya herself.

She told herself that she hadn't agreed to anything more than this night – that she didn't have to think about what she was being bribed in exchange for – but knew it was a lie.

She drank the second glass of wine the same way, Natalya's hands pinning her head in place. For how many more could she hold her balance here, kneeling on the floor? She shouldn't have been drunk after only two glasses of wine, not when she could down vodka by the bottle, but she hadn't eaten at all in too long. She had already been light headed. Now her head was spinning.

“Should I pour another?” Natalya asked, watching her. The momentary impression from earlier, that she had become Erzsébet's friend again, was gone. Erzsébet stared into the eyes of something that would not allow her to forget that Natalya was not human, any more than any of them were. Erzsébet wondered that she had been foolish enough to address her as _Natasha_.

“No,” she said, softly. “You don't have to drug me to make me obey you, Natalya.”

Erzsébet wasn't human, either. She was stronger than she felt, kneeling almost nakedly on the floor. The draft from behind her made the skin of her back prickle, and her vision swam, and she had to resist the urge to brace herself with a hand on the floor – but nevertheless Budapest stood around them, and the Danube rushed forever onward. Erzsébet was not real, was only a facsimile of a woman created by them. Natalya couldn't destroy her like this.

She took her comfort in that, or formed her excuses from it.

Natalya went again to the counter, but this time she returned with the wine bottle, and put it to Erzsébet's lips without measuring out a mere glass.

Erzsébet closed her lips around it when bidden, closed her eyes too and held her breath to let Natalya decide how much she would drink; the alcohol went to her bloodstream faster than a blink. When Natalya took it away it took several seconds for her to focus, and that time she did put a hand on the rough wooden floorboards to keep herself steady.

“I hope that wasn't the whole bottle,” she said, unsteadily.

“I wouldn't waste that much of it.” Natalya put the bottle down with a small clink. Her hair shifted and shimmered in the dim light like something alive, and her skin gleamed. Erzsébet vaguely expected that she would start to sing, and dance, and possibly bear Erzsébet off into the forest to dispose of her in ways unknown, but of course it was still only Natalya. Belarus. Something more and less dangerous than a rusalka or vila.

Natalya did not return to her. Instead, she pulled out a second chair from the table, the one next to the chair with her clothing on it, and sat, legs wide.

“Erzsébet,” she said. “Come here.”

Erzsébet crawled.

The floorboards were rough on the palms of her hand and her knees. She was almost too drunk to notice the pain already, but she wondered how she would explain the marks tomorrow. She was too ill, lately, too much of her governmental power delegated to Russia; her healing wasn't much faster than a human.

Then she reached Natalya, and felt her hand on her cheek, and she stopped thinking.

Natalya drew her upward, lightly, pressing her other hand flatly to Erzsébet's shoulder. Erzsébet went gladly, pliantly. All she wanted in that moment was for Natalya to keep touching her. The warmth of her skin – still warm, still almost human for all Erzsébet could feel the snow in her capital in her gaze – steadied her. The almost nauseous feeling of too much wine on an empty stomach receded, and she might have been able to think if only Natalya had given her time.

She didn't want to think. Natalya's legs were spread, and her hands pulled Erzsébet in, and Erzsébet went, eyes and mouth open.

The taste and smell of Natalya took away the bitterness of the wine in her mouth, and was a relief for it. She licked the crease of Natalya's thigh and tasted salt and sweat, felt Natalya shiver underneath her; facsimiles they might be, false skin stretched over bones made of the spines of mountain ranges and rivers in the place of blood vessels, but for now they were both human enough to touch and feel.

Erzsébet turned to Natalya's center and buried her mouth. The wine had made her flush with heat, and with her nose and mouth full of Natalya's skin and her legs pressed over Erzsébet's shoulders, it was hard to breathe, but Erzsébet found she didn't mind. She was suffocated – her country was suffocated – by them; why should she not take it in a form she could derive some pleasure from?

Natalya shuddered and sighed underneath her, and buried her hands in Erzsébet's hair. Her fingers worked deeper into it, held on tighter, until Erzsébet couldn't have pulled back for more than a gasp of air if she wanted to.

The room beyond seemed to retreat, then vanish; there were only Natalya's skin and body heat, seeming to merge with the flush of Erzsébet's cheeks, and her fingers in her hair. The spasms beneath her came faster and faster until they were erratic with intensity.

Erzsébet wondered if she would black out from lack of breath, then stopped caring, as Natalya's hands and thighs jerked around her. Natalya's fingers tightened more with her shudders in orgasm. For a moment Erzsébet thought her hair would be pulled out by the roots.

When Natalya finally cried out - “Liza,” naturally - it seemed to come from very far away. Erzsébet could barely notice Natalya's shivering. Her climax lasted too long, because Erzsébet couldn't _breathe._

At last, Natalya was still, and her fingers loosened. Erzsébet pulled back, gasping, and laid her head on Natalya's thigh. She felt those delicate fingers stroking wisps of hair back from her face, and relaxed, knowing that they were not immediately going to resume hostility. Erzsébet closed her eyes.

 

The sheets were too thick.

Erzsébet's breath stilled when she noticed it, and she reached under the pillow, but her gun wasn't there. Neither was the knife that she kept between the mattress and the wall, and then her eyes opened the rest of the way and she remembered.

It was obviously the bedroom of Natalya's temporary apartment – new sheets without a hole she could find; blankets thick and, if she identified them correctly, stuffed with actual down. The bed frame and the trunk at its foot seemed to be made of real wood, and there weren't any visible patches in the walls.

But Natalya wasn't there.

Erzsébet told herself flatly that it was crazy to be disappointed by that, and sat up. She should be grateful she wasn't waking in a cell somewhere, or cuffed to something.

Her head didn't hurt, but it felt packed with cotton. She rubbed it irritably, wishing she had stayed conscious long enough to drink water. She couldn't remember how much Natalya had given her. Possibly there had been something stronger mixed into the wine, or it was only that she had drank most of a bottle by herself in the span of five minutes or so. A bottle of wine wasn't all that much to someone with her alcohol tolerance, but she generally stretched it out over a _little_ more time.

Erzsébet didn't particularly resent it. She knew how dangerous she could be, and why Natalya might have hesitated to have her so physically close without some kind of amelioration. But she was surprised Natalya would pull that kind of trick.

Erzsébet was going to tell herself the rest of that emotion was only that she was reluctantly impressed by it. That would make their next conversation easier.

She pushed the blankets off and got up, staggered slightly until her mind absorbed that they were definitely not getting back into bed. It took until she had opened the door and gone into the hallway before she realized the clothing was wrong, too; she was wearing a cotton shift, the sort of thing they all used to wear under their clothes back in the nineteenth century. Probably Natalya's night dress.

Erzsébet had still been wearing underwear and a bra when she passed out; the underwear was still there, but not the bra. Natalya had dressed her before putting her in the bed, then. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. Or the rest of it. If she got _out of here_ soon enough she might not have to decide.

But – damn it all – Natalya was still home. Erzsébet hadn't overslept after all.

The woman in question was standing in the kitchen, stirring a pan. She was dressed, this time in ordinary office clothing – skirt, stockings, blouse. All of that long, shining hair had been recontained on her head.

When she turned, there was nothing in her to make Erzsébet think of a rusalka; the sunlight gave her cheeks a more human color, and she was smiling slightly, no ice whatsoever. Erzsébet thought unwillingly of the sort of woman they photographed for propaganda pictures – pretty, photogenic and loyal; _glory to the mother hero_ \- and gritted her teeth.

She went to find her boots and coat immediately without retrieving the rest of her clothing. She could return the shift later. Possibly by mail.

“At least have breakfast with me,” Natalya said, watching this.

“Is that an order, Comrade?” Erzsébet said, one boot on. Frosty, in German, except for the last word. (She wouldn't have had to use German to avoid Russian if Natalya had ever bothered to learn more Hungarian than _papers please,_ of course, so she refused to feel guilty about it.)

There was a spectacularly awkward silence. Erzsébet knew that Natalya would look a great deal less cheerful now and refused to turn around and check.

“No,” Natalya said. “I meant what I said last night. You didn't have to kneel to me. You didn't have to fuck me, either. But you passed out before you ate last night and I think that you had not eaten earlier either, with how fast the wine affected you. So I am asking you to stay long enough to eat. I can wrap up some bread and cheese if you want to go now.”

“Bread will be fine,” Erzsébet said, and tried not to inhale the smell of the food.

“Very well, Vengriya,” Natalya said.

Vengriya, Erzsébet thought, and repressed a snort. Russian. Not Vienhryja. When had Natalya last spoken her own language? Been to her own cities?

“I'm surprised you even let me touch you,” Erzsébet said, and immediately regretted it.

“Shouldn't I have?” Natalya said, tone deceptively neutral.

“I don't know. Why did you?” She heard rustling behind her – Natalya getting food for her – and tried to think who she would give it to. There was a woman in the building next to hers who was pregnant with no husband or parents...

“Perhaps I only wished to gauge your cooperation without an extended conversation,” Natalya said, and pressed a bag into her hand. “Sex is much less variable, and your behavior during it is generally more pleasant than elsewhere.”

Erzsébet took it and frowned. Much too heavy for one meal.

“This is for your neighbors,” Natalya said. “I am not an idiot, Vengriya. This is for you.” She handed a smaller package into her hand. “You will please eat it in front of me if you want the rest.”

“Fuck you,” Erzsébet said, and opened it. “So what are you going to tell Russia about my _cooperation_?” She took a bite at the end of the sentence and chewed hastily, wanting to be gone.

“Very little,” Natalya said. “I do not suppose I'll need to. You may not wish to speak that way to me indoors, Vengriya. Liza. They say that someone is always listening.”

Erzsébet swung around, angry, but with the grocery bag tucked into her left arm and her right hand full, she couldn't hit Natalya without dropping something.

Natalya was smiling, still, after all.

“A good mother ensures her children are fed,” Natalya said. “As well as obedient.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I unfortunately don't have time to footnote this right now, so check back later for the usual selected citations.
> 
> One I can't resist: [Glory To The Mother Hero!](https://russophilia.wordpress.com/2010/02/11/the-joy-of-motherhood-soviet-propaganda-and-some-of-my-own/) (Second image.)


End file.
